


you're not mine anymore, but i'm still a little bit yours

by burninghoneyatdusk



Series: t100 Fic for BLM Prompts [6]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Artist Clarke Griffin, Bartender Bellamy Blake, Exes to Lovers, F/M, Flashbacks, Miscommunication, Mutual Pining, POV Alternating, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-20
Updated: 2021-01-20
Packaged: 2021-03-18 17:42:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28871016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/burninghoneyatdusk/pseuds/burninghoneyatdusk
Summary: Bellamy and Clarke are long over, but that doesn't stop Bellamy from anonymously buying his ex's artwork - artwork Bellamy has no idea was inspired by him.
Relationships: Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin
Series: t100 Fic for BLM Prompts [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1784740
Comments: 33
Kudos: 270
Collections: The t100 Writers for BLM Initiative





	you're not mine anymore, but i'm still a little bit yours

**Author's Note:**

  * For [azzurro_18](https://archiveofourown.org/users/azzurro_18/gifts).



> This fic was prompted via t100 Fic for Black Lives Matter Initiative, where myself and other writers and creators are accepting prompts in exchange for donations to organizations that support the BLM cause. You can learn more about it via our [carrd](https://t100fic-for-blm.carrd.co/), but always feel free to hit me up on twitter (@burnhoneydusk) or tumblr (@burninghoneyatdusk) if you have any questions about submitting a prompt or joining us as a writer or creator. 
> 
> Additionally, t100 Fic for BLM released an audience survey today and would love to hear your feedback regarding how we're doing and where we can improve. The survey is completely anonymous, and for both those who have AND have not submitted prompts to us. If you could spare the five minutes to take the survey, we would greatly appreciate it! You can take the survey [here](https://forms.gle/vtEDUn6LqKd1i9Dj6). 
> 
> Fic title is from the song 'A Little Bit Yours' by JP Saxe.

“You know Clarke is going to be there, right?”

Bellamy runs a hand through his curls, his phone pressed between his ear and shoulder while he leans against his kitchen counter. 

“Yeah, O. I kind of figured - don’t worry about it though. We’ll be fine.”

The last thing Bellamy wants to do is make his little sister’s engagement party about him. It’s  _ her _ night to be happy and revel in her own successful relationship, not worry about his failed one. He’s almost certain that Clarke feels the same way. 

Octavia sighs. “I know you’ll be  _ fine _ , but fine isn’t good, Bell. I just want you to be happy.”

“I’m over it - truly. You don’t need to worry about me.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, really. In fact - I’m bringing someone to the party,” he tells her, although he’s only just decided that. He isn’t even sure Echo will want to go to his sister’s engagement party as a fourth date, but in his experience, people rarely turn down an opportunity for free alcohol. As a bartender, he understands that more than most. 

There’s also the fact that the petty part of him is eager to see if Clarke has any reaction at all to him being with someone else. He isn’t sure if he hopes she does or doesn’t at this point. 

“I didn’t even know you were seeing someone.”

“I mean...it’s new - nothing serious yet. We’ve only been out a few times, but it’s going well.”

“Well...okay. As long as you’re happy.”

“I am, O. I promise.”

A fucking lie if there ever was one. 

\--∞--

It was an average Friday night when Bellamy first saw her. To say that it wasn’t love at first sight would be an understatement. In fact, the very first thing he remembers about Clarke is a feeling of irritation watching the way she carried herself. 

Drop Ship is a neighborhood pub, just nice enough to be considered a step up from a dive bar. It’s the kind of place that has regulars, the kind of place that people like because it isn’t trendy or flashy. Nearly two and a half years ago, Clarke walked into Drop Ship with her head held high, with the confidence of a local despite never having stepped foot there before. The tips of her blonde hair were dyed pink back then and she was wearing a tight white tank top with thin red stripes on it. Her tank top was tucked into a pair of high-waisted jeans that perfectly hugged her curves, and she was wearing simple red heels. He hates that he so clearly remembers what she looked like the night he met her, but there’s no denying that he does. 

Bellamy steeled himself when she walked up to the bar, expecting her to order some fancy cocktail they didn’t have the ingredients for and throw a fit about it. Instead, she sat confidently on one of the bar stools and ordered a mid-shelf whiskey neat. 

“So what’s the deal with everyone?” she asked as he slid the drink to her.

Bellamy raised his brow at her, pushing up the sleeves of the flannel he was wearing over his old white t-shirt. “What’s the  _ deal _ ?”

“Yeah,” she said, taking a sip of the whiskey. She didn’t even flinch. “Like - who can I go home with here, that isn’t going to murder me and isn’t keeping a ring in their pocket?”

Bellamy scoffed. “Are you asking me to wingman you?”

Clarke shrugged, taking another sip. “Not necessarily, but that would be fun, wouldn’t it?”

To Bellamy’s surprise, he  _ did _ point out some of the guys he knew were decent people and as far as he knew, single. She took one of them home that night, and then appeared at the bar nearly a week later...and that’s how it went for a while.

For nearly three months, Clarke, as he eventually learned was her name, waltzed into the bar like she owned the place. Sometimes if it was quiet, they chatted before her attention was pulled elsewhere. He learned that she was 22, had just graduated from Arkadia University’s art program and moved to Polis to work at an art gallery. Bellamy still pointed out guys - and girls - who he thought she would be interested in, and it eventually became a sort of game to them. Sometimes they jokingly discussed the recipients in detail, a secret competition between her targets that they knew nothing of. 

Two months into this practice, he finally asked her what  _ her _ deal was. 

“What do you mean?” she asked innocently. 

“Not that I’m judging, but...you really don’t like  _ anyone _ enough to go home with them more than once?”

Clarke shrugged. “Relationships aren’t my thing - I’m not interested in one.”

“Well, that’s fair,” he replied, dropping the topic. 

By the time those first three months passed, he found himself looking forward to the nights Clarke might come in, although he never really knew when to expect her. Somehow, she had become something of a friend to him. She complained about her boss, he complained about other customers. She talked about art, he told her about his plan to one day own his own bar. 

Eventually, things changed. It happened so gradually that it caught him off guard. One night, as he watched her leave with a tall woman with dirty blonde hair, he realized he minded. It only got worse after that. With every person she took home, his jealousy spread through him like an infestation of toxic weeds, impossible to root out. As weeks passed, it became too unbearable to ignore. He was terrified to say anything, but he figured even if she brutally rejected him, at least she would probably stop coming by his bar. One way or another, he’d be free of his pathetic pining. 

One night, she spent the entire evening on the barstool, making no effort to speak with anyone else. Ten minutes before they were closing, she was still nursing her drink, which Bellamy took as a good sign. The woman intimidated the hell out of him, but he still had to try. 

“Not looking for anyone tonight?” he asked as he dried off a glass, striving for a casual tone. 

Clarke shrugged. “Not really - unless you have someone in mind.”

Bellamy tensed. This was it.

“Maybe,” he answered, setting down the glass and looking up at her. She was already looking at him, and he didn’t remember her eyes being so dark before. 

“Well?” she prompted, when he momentarily forgot how to speak. Bellamy leaned back against the counter, crossing his arms in a way he hoped appeared casual. 

“Yeah,” he continued, clearing his throat. “Dark hair. Pours a lot of whiskey. Hell of a wingman.”

Clarke’s lips twisted into a smile at his words, an obvious glint in her eyes. “He doesn’t sound too bad.”

Bellamy laughed, but their conversation was cut short when someone called him over to pay their tab. “Just, uh - will you hang around while I close?” he asked, walking backwards towards the other customer. 

Clarke nodded eagerly before his attention was pulled from her. He worked quickly to get everyone out of the bar after that, his stomach full of butterflies he hadn’t felt for a woman in a long time. As soon as the last customer was out the door, Bellamy locked it and turned towards Clarke. They collided like two magnets, their pull towards each other inevitable. Clarke jumped into his arms and their lips never parted while he walked her over to one of the tables. It wasn’t five more minutes before Bellamy was inside of her and Clarke was moaning his name as he snapped his hips over and over again, her hands raking across his back and through his hair. 

Bellamy played old 2000s pop punk hits as they cleaned up the bar together, the two of them singing along and laughing the entire time. When they were finished, he took Clarke home and they fucked again before passing out in his bed, Clarke wrapped in his arms. 

That’s how it went on for months. They were friends, they had sex, but they never talked about it - about what they were, about if they were seeing other people, about what they wanted. The thing was, Bellamy already knew what he wanted. He’d had one night stands over the years, but he’d never been a fan of them. He’d dated Roma for two years, and Gina for three years before they broke up two years ago. Clarke was different though. Not only did he like her more than he’d ever liked anyone, but he was also afraid to broach the topic with her. Roma and Gina had been like him, looking for a commitment. Clarke clearly hadn’t been and Bellamy was terrified of scaring her off.

\--∞--

A sheen of sweat covers Clarke’s brow, but she can’t wipe it away without smearing paint across her face. The studio space she shares with other artists doesn’t have a suitable AC system - at least not for a nearly 90 degree afternoon in July. She leans back on her knees, taking in the canvas laid on the floor that she’s been working on. It’s certainly not her best, but it’s a good distraction from the night she has ahead of her, so she lets herself get lost in it. 

Clarke isn’t sure how much time has passed when a knock on the door startles her. Still on all fours and hovered over her canvas, she looks over her shoulder to find Lincoln standing at the door. 

“You’re still coming tonight, right?”

“Of course I am - I wouldn’t miss it,” she assures him, as if she has no idea why he would even ask. She absolutely knows why he’s asking. Still, Lincoln plays along instead of prying, which is one of the reasons she loves him. 

“I wouldn’t miss the chance to fawn over you love-sick fools,” she adds, offering a teasing smile. 

Lincoln laughs again. “Alright - I’ll see you tonight, Clarke.”

Clarke releases a long breath when he leaves, the smile immediately dropping from her face. Her chest aches when she thinks about having to see Bellamy, even though she has no one to blame but herself.

\--∞--

Clarke and Bellamy had a good thing going. In fact, she’d never gotten along with someone as well as she did Bellamy, and the sex was  _ amazing _ . Somehow, Bellamy had truly become her best friend. But Clarke didn’t - couldn’t - want more. She didn’t do relationships, because relationships always turned serious, and complicated, and most importantly, nearly always ended with both parties hating each other. That’s how it was with her parents, and with so many of her friends and their exes, and Clarke couldn’t bear the thought of hating Bellamy. 

Four months into hooking up, she arrived at the bar on Friday night like she always did. Except that night, Bellamy was talking with another blonde woman leaning against the bar. She was leaning forward purposely, her cleavage on full display. Admittedly, it was a move Clarke knew well. She wasn’t sure if her rage or disappointment was stronger, both emotions fighting for dominance in her as she took a seat at the opposite end of the bar. The thing was, she had no right to be upset. In fact, she could go flirt with someone else herself, and Bellamy would have no right to say a thing about it. The problem was, somehow over the last four months, everyone else had lost their appeal. Bellamy was the only one she wanted.

When the other woman took her drink back to her friends, Bellamy finally walked over to say hi and pour her drink. She tried her best not to scowl, not to show the emotions she technically had no right to feel. It wasn’t easy though - not at all. The girl went up for drinks several times throughout the night, and twenty minutes before close, Clarke watched as she pulled out her phone. 

Clarke doesn’t remember exactly how it went down. She remembers seeing red, and somehow ending up on the other side of the bar, in between Bellamy and the woman.

“If you could stop hitting on my boyfriend, that would be fantastic,” she heard herself say, in disbelief over her own words. Bellamy looked just as shocked. 

But still, when the girl asked him if he had a girlfriend, he nodded.

“Yeah...sorry.”

The girl rolled her eyes before walking away from them. After the moment settled, Clarke’s face flushed. She had just gone full on  _ crazy _ in front of Bellamy. 

“What the hell was that?” he questioned, when she finally turned to face him. 

“I don’t - I’m sorry,” she stammered, before bolting from the bar.

She had never expected Bellamy to show up at her apartment an hour later, instead of ghosting her. She had never expected him to kiss her before saying anything else. She had never expected him to ask her to be his girlfriend. She had certainly never expected herself to say yes.

\--∞--

Clarke has a glass of wine while she gets ready for the engagement party. Her small studio apartment is filled with upbeat music in an attempt to drown out her grief before she gets there. The last thing she wants is to be selfish, even if the second to last thing she wants is to celebrate someone else’s happiness. She thought it would be easier by now - it’s been six months since they broke up. She should have known that she wouldn’t be able to get over Bellamy, not when she had never loved anyone like she loved him. In fact, she’d never loved anyone at all before him.

Clarke’s heart is racing when she walks into the bar that Lincoln and Octavia are hosting their engagement party at. It’s classy, with exposed brick walls, modern chandeliers, and greenery hanging from the ceiling. Her eyes search for Bellamy amongst the already crowded room, but she doesn’t see him anywhere yet. It’s been months since she last saw him. Even though they run in the same social circles, she’s done a decent job at avoiding his presence. Sighing in relief, she heads over to where Octavia and Lincoln are greeting their guests. 

“Congratulations,” Clarke calls, immediately wrapping Octavia in a hug. She hasn’t seen her since Lincoln proposed last week. 

The break up had been hard on all of their friends, given that their friends had all merged into one group in the two years they were together. In fact, it was Clarke who introduced Lincoln to Octavia about three months after she and Bellamy began officially dating. Given how close Bellamy and Octavia are, Clarke counts it as a blessing that the woman still wanted to remain friends with her. 

“Thank you,” Octavia answers, once she pulls away. Her smile is wide, like she can’t contain it. Clarke used to be happy like that, but that feels like a long time ago now. 

“Well, let me see it,” Clarke prompts her. 

Octavia offers Clarke her hand, proudly showing off the ring, but Clarke’s heart nearly stops when she sees it. She would recognize that ring anywhere. 

\--∞--

Clarke woke to the sun shining through the blinds of their bedroom. It was a familiar morning, an average morning. Rolling onto her opposite side, she found Bellamy already awake, staring back at her. She loved how he looked in the morning - sleepy eyes and bed head. It always made her want to pull him closer, to wrap herself in his very essence and fall back asleep.

“Morning,” he murmured, trailing a featherlight finger up and down her bare back. His touch along her spine made goosebumps erupt across her skin and her breath catch in her throat. 

“Morning,” she answered, scooting closer to him so that her chest was pressed against his. She kissed along his collarbone, his shoulders, his neck, until she finally reached his lips. 

“You’re going to be late for work,” he warned. It wasn’t a stern warning, not with the way that Bellamy pulled her onto his lap as he said it. He buried his face in her chest, leaving a trail of kisses across her skin. 

“Tough luck for them,” she quipped, the last word coming out as a gasp as he pulled her tighter against him. She could feel him growing hard beneath her as she kissed him fiercely, and knew there wasn’t a job on Earth that could keep her from breaking that moment. 

Bellamy groaned when Clarke stroked him before pressing him inside her, taking all of him inch by inch. 

“Fuck, baby,” he moaned. “You feel incredible.”

Clarke rolled her hips, feeling the fire in her veins building quickly. His hands roamed across her back as his thrusts met her rhythm until they were both panting, moaning shamelessly as they fell apart together. She kissed his temple as he held her close, and she wondered how she had gone a day of her life without him. 

“Okay, you’re really going to be late now,” he chuckled as he lifted her off of him. 

“It was worth it,” she laughs, giving him a quick last kiss before hopping off the bed and into the bathroom to shower. 

By the time she got out of the shower, she could smell coffee from the kitchen and hear Bellamy making her breakfast. She’d never been one to eat breakfast, but Bellamy always insisted, and she could admit that she felt a lot more energized when she did. Behind on her own laundry, Clarke opened Bellamy’s sock drawer to find a pair. She was digging through it, trying to find one a pair small enough to not look ridiculous on her, when she felt it. Heart pounding, she pulled out the small ring box, her thumb brushing over the soft, navy velvet. 

_ No. _

It was the immediate thought that ran through her mind. Bellamy wouldn’t...they weren’t ready for that.  _ She  _ wasn’t ready for that. She wasn’t even 25 yet, but maybe that didn’t matter. He was turning 30 next year...maybe what mattered was that  _ he  _ was ready for this. 

Curiosity outweighed her dread and she cautiously opened the box. The ring was beautiful and unique - a dark emerald set between two smaller diamonds. Quickly shaking her head, she closed the box and threw it back in the drawer, shuffling the socks over it. 

Clarke tried not to let the ring bother her after that, but it did. Anytime they went out to dinner, anytime any kind of moment passed between them, Clarke tensed. The question she knew he planned to ask haunted her, because no matter how many days passed, she didn’t know what the answer would be.

The stress became too much to bear, which is when she began to pull away. Bellamy tried to get through to her, but she couldn’t tell him she wasn’t sure if she wanted to marry him - not after seeing that ring. He must have saved for nearly a year to afford it. So Clarke pushed back with as much vigor as he pushed her to open up. Small arguments accumulated into a single, horrible fight. It was the fight that Clarke still thinks about when she lays in bed at night, mind running through all the ways in which she handled everything wrong.

“If you don’t want to be in this relationship, then why the fuck are you here?” he had asked, exasperated with her. 

Clarke didn’t have an answer to that. Her hesitation was enough. 

\--∞--

Clarke stares at the ring, swallowing thickly and trying to conjure a string of words that sounds like a normal sentence.

“It’s - it’s beautiful,” she stutters. 

“It was my mom’s,” Octavia explains. “Bellamy kept it all these years because I was always obsessed with it as a girl. When Lincoln told Bellamy he was going to propose, Bellamy gave it to him.”

Clarke closes her eyes briefly, the ache in her chest surreal. She’s not sure she’s ever fucked up so badly. 

“Are you okay?” Octavia asks, placing a hand on her upper arm.

Clarke quickly nods. “I’m just going to grab a drink,” she tells them, voice strained. She ignores the look Octavia and Lincoln exchange as she walks away. 

\--∞--

Bellamy is tying his tie when he hears the knock on his front door.

“It’s open,” he calls, quickly finishing and straightening it. 

Bellamy walks into the living room just as Echo walks into his apartment. He greets her with a kiss on the cheek before asking if she wants a drink. She shakes her head, walking further into the apartment. Although he’s spent the night at her place a couple times, this is her first time at his. 

“This is beautiful,” she comments, staring at the art hanging on his living room wall. “Although, I didn’t take you for an art person - certainly not this kind,” she teases. 

Bellamy forces a laugh, running a hand through his hair and trying to fend off the thick emotion that floods him as he looks up at the three paintings lining his wall. His sister called him a masochist for buying them, and Bellamy can’t deny that. Every time he looks at them, it’s a reminder that he isn’t ready to let her go. That’s the simple truth of it, and why they’re hanging on his wall. 

\--∞--

Bellamy was a mess. His friends knew that. His coworkers knew that. Most importantly, his sister knew that, which is why she came barging into his apartment using her emergency key, two months after Clarke and him ended things.

“What the hell?” he grumbled from where he was laying on his couch. His coffee table was littered in beer bottles and takeout containers, and he hadn’t showered in days, his stubble longer than he ever let it get. 

“What the hell is right,” Octavia observed, taking him in. “Go clean up, you’re coming to Lincoln’s exhibit with me.”

Bellamy glared at her, as if she had suggested he jump out of a plane. Octavia’s expression softened. 

“She’s visiting her mom this weekend, Bell. She won’t be there, and you need a night out. It’s only Lincoln and Luna’s art they’re showing tonight. Go shower, or you’re going to have to deal with me sitting on your couch with you all night, and it’ll be your fault I miss my boyfriend’s show.”

Bellamy grumbled some more, muttering about how she was a pain in his ass, but did as he was told. He had to admit, he felt a little better when he got out of the shower. That didn’t mean he wanted to put on a decent shirt and socialize though. 

Bellamy was quiet as they made their way to the gallery. He observed the pity in Lincoln’s eyes when he greeted him, as well as the rest of their friends who came. Monty, Harper, Jasper, Miller, Raven, and Murphy all offered varying degrees of support, some more subtle than others. He didn’t want to hear any of it though. While he knew Octavia had the best of intentions, the last place he wanted to be was an art gallery.

Art galleries belonged to Clarke, and always would. Art galleries were memories of Clarke bringing him to exhibits and showcases when they were just friends hooking up. They would get tipsy off the free wine and Clarke would explain the art to him. As the years went by and her own art started getting shown in galleries, he supported her at every exhibit, forever in awe of what she was able to create. Forever in awe of how she transferred such enormous feelings onto a canvas. Forever in awe of how she could translate feelings into color, as if it was any other spoken language. 

Bellamy never loved art like Clarke did, but during their time together, he grew to love it for one simple reason - she did. He loved hearing her thoughts on different pieces, loved the privileged feeling of being able to glimpse into her brilliant mind, even if he would never truly understand it. Art made Clarke happy, and Clarke made him happy. It was as simple as that.

Bellamy wandered, avoiding his friends and their attempts at making conversation with him. He didn’t want to carry on like things were normal, because nothing felt normal anymore. Clarke shattered normal along with his heart. Eventually, he found his way to the back corner of the back room of the gallery. The room being empty was what originally drew him there, but the reason he stayed was the art that caught his eye. 

Like most of her work, these pieces were abstract. The first painting was all muted, pastel colors - neat lines and clear patterns. In the second painting, the colors shifted to bright neon and the lines and patterns broke, as if the colors themselves exploded on the page. The last one was black, white, and various shades of gray. The colors weren’t displayed in neat lines and patterns like the first, or the explosion of colors that the second was, but as a slow drip down the canvas. Like rain. Like tears. Like blood. His heart shattered at the sight of them, although he could hardly explain why. 

Eventually, Octavia and Lincoln found him staring at the piece. He heard, more than saw, them approach him. Octavia was scolding Lincoln, saying something about how he promised her none of Clarke’s art was going to be on display. Lincoln was apologizing, saying something about it being a last minute addition. 

Without a word, he walked away. By the time he left that night, he was the anonymous owner of the art pieces. It didn’t matter that $1,000 put a sizable dent in his bank account. All that mattered was that the art belonged to him. More than that, maybe what truly mattered to him was that the art belonged to no one else. 

\--∞--

Just as the bartender hands Clarke her glass of cabernet, she hears his voice. Turning around so quickly she nearly spills her wine, her eyes land on him just as he wraps Octavia into a tight hug. Once Bellamy shakes Lincoln’s hand, Clarke watches with wide eyes as Bellamy pulls another woman closer to him, introducing her to Octavia and Lincoln. 

_ He brought someone else.  _

_ He’s already moved on.  _

Clarke gulps her wine, willing herself not to burst into tears in the middle of the party. She has no one to blame but herself, and she  _ should _ want Bellamy to be happy, but she can’t muster that sentiment. She only wants him to be happy with  _ her _ , not the beautiful, leggy brunette who has her arm around his waist. 

Turning back towards the bartender, Clarke orders a shot of tequila. It’s going to be a long night. 

\--∞--

Bellamy does his best to avoid Clarke, thinking it’s what’s best for the both of them. Unfortunately, the venue is small, and the party isn’t  _ that _ crowded, and so the inevitable happens. Clarke heads to the bar at the same time as he and Echo, and the three of them nearly collide.

“Clarke,” he greets her. His voice sounds strained, and all wrong.

“Hi,” she answers, gaze flickering to Echo before returning to him.

“Oh, this is Echo,” he continues. “Clarke is-”

“His ex,” Clarke finishes for him, offering her hand to Echo. “The one who broke his heart.” 

She says it like it’s a joke, a punchline he doesn’t understand. In Echo’s defense, she doesn’t miss a beat before shaking her hand and telling her it’s nice to meet her. Bellamy glares at Clarke for a moment. 

“Do you mind grabbing our drinks,” he murmurs to Echo. Echo nods, offering one last smile to Clarke before turning towards the bar. 

“What was that?” he questions, as soon as Echo is out of earshot.

“I didn’t know it was a secret,” Clarke shrugs. He looks at her more closely, noting her flushed face and unfocused eyes. 

“How much have you had to drink?”

Clarke’s gaze turns murderous. “Fuck off, Bellamy. Why don’t you worry about your new girlfriend instead of me,” she snaps.

Bellamy plans to tell her she doesn’t have a right to have an opinion on his love life, but she brushes past him before he can say another word. Sighing, he walks up to the bar to catch up with Echo. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Clarke approach the opposite side of the bar and order another drink. 

Bellamy keeps an eye on Clarke for the next hour or so. He tells himself that he’s only making sure she doesn’t make a fool of herself and ruin Octavia’s party, but he’s also worried about her, whether she deserves his worry or not. During Bellamy’s toast, he watches Clarke slip out the front door of the bar. He strives to keep a steady voice as he finishes speaking, fighting the instinct to run after her mid-sentence, afraid she’ll get hit by a car or worse

After Bellamy passes the mic to Lincoln’s brother, he leans closer to Octavia so that only she can hear him. 

“I’m going to go check on Clarke,” he murmurs.

“Bell, tell Raven to check on her. You shouldn’t have to.”

“I know, but it’s fine,” he assures her, standing from the table. He can feel Echo’s eyes follow him out of the bar and feels a pang of guilt for not telling her where he’s going. It still isn’t enough to make him turn around though. 

When Bellamy walks outside, he doesn’t immediately see Clarke. The sun has long gone down and the streets are busy with people coming to and from the restaurants and bars that line it. Panic erupts in his chest, even though she probably just took an Uber home. He begins walking down the block anyway, but nearly misses her when he walks past the alley she’s standing in. It’s the familiar flash of blonde hair that catches his attention. When he doubles back, he finds her leaning against the grimy brick wall, a lit cigarette between her two fingers and blowing smoke. 

“You’re smoking again,” he says, walking closer with his hands in his pockets. 

Clarke rolls her eyes. “I don’t need a lecture.”

“I’m not here to give you one. Just making sure you’re okay.”

Bellamy expects an angry retort. Instead, she briefly squeezes her eyes closed and lets her head fall back against the wall. It rolls, like she’s having a hard time holding it up. After a beat, she opens her eyes again. 

“You should go,” she says. 

“You’re wasted, you need to go home.”

“I know.”

Clarke tenses as soon as she says it, quickly tossing her cigarette on the ground and grinding it into the pavement with her heel. He isn’t sure what she’s doing when she turns away from him, until she leans over with her hands on her knees. 

“Fuck,” Bellamy mutters, moving to help her on instinct. He pulls her hair out of her face just as she pukes all over the pavement. She coughs once more before puking again. After that, she takes a deep breath. 

“Bellamy?”

Bellamy spins around at the sound of Echo’s voice. 

“Hey - I’m sorry,” he tells her, still unable to make himself let go of Clarke. “I’ll be right in.”

Echo crosses her arms uncomfortably. “I think I’m actually going to head out - looks like you’ve got your hands full.”

Bellamy offers an apologetic grimace. “I’ll call you later, then.”

Clarke breaks away from Bellamy and sits down on the ground a few feet from her puke, her back against the wall. 

Echo shakes her head at that. “I think it’s better that you don’t,” she tells him. She walks away before he can respond, but he’s not sure he has a response anyway. When he looks back at Clarke, she has her eyes closed. 

“Clarke, c’mon,” he encourages her, pulling her up. “I’m going to call us an Uber.”

“I’m fine,” she slurs, even though she can’t keep her eyes open or stand without his support. 

“Sure,” he says, pulling out his phone. He isn’t sure where Clarke’s new apartment is and figures he won’t get a coherent address from her anyway, so he plugs in his own address instead. Then he shoots his sister a text explaining that he’s taking Clarke home, and walks them back to the street, holding more than half of Clarke’s weight. 

“I’m sorry,” she slurs, voice quiet, just as the Uber pulls up to the curb. 

“It’s fine,” he quickly says, even though it isn’t. It hasn’t been fine since the day Clarke moved out. He helps her into the back of the SUV before climbing in next to her. Her head immediately drops against his shoulder, her mouth slightly agape as she passes out again. Bellamy stares out the window, at the black sky and city lights, trying not to think about how pathetic it is that he would rather have Clarke like this than not at all.

\--∞--

A pounding in Clarke’s head accosts her before she even opens her eyes. Groaning, she forces them open, immediately squinting even though the morning light shining through their bedroom windows’ blinds isn’t that bright. 

No - not  _ their _ bedroom, she remembers. Not anymore. 

The night comes back to her in flashes. She isn’t sure if she feels more embarrassed about her behavior for acting like such a fool, or just plain guilty for making her friend’s engagement party about her own pathetic problems. 

Thankfully - or maybe unfortunately - she didn’t black out. It’s just that the night is fuzzy, to say the least. She remembers Bellamy holding her hair as she puked in an alley. She remembers passing out in the Uber, the warmth of his shoulder bleeding through his dress shirt and onto her cheek. She remembers him helping her inside the apartment that used to be theirs instead of his, and him forcing her to drink water. She remembers him helping her into one of his old sweatshirts too, before the world went dark again. Clarke plays with the sweatshirt’s cuff now, trying not to drown in memories of all the times she wore it in the past without giving it a second thought. 

Part of her wishes she could lay in their old bed all day, but she has to face the music. At the very least, Clarke needs to get out of his hair. It’s the least she can do after the way she acted last night. 

Taking a deep breath, she throws the blanket off her and realizes she’s only wearing a pair of underwear. Given that the sweatshirt reaches mid-thigh and Bellamy has seen all there is to see, she can’t find it in her to care. Cautiously, she opens the bedroom door into the living room. She immediately smells coffee, and is about to follow the scent into the kitchen, but the back living room wall catches her eye. 

Clarke doubles back, breath caught in her throat as she stares at the three matching paintings, part of a piece that was bought by an anonymous buyer over 4 months ago. Now, somehow, they’re hanging in the apartment of the man who inspired them in the first place. 

\--∞--

The first month in her new studio, Clarke barely left her bed. Try as she might, she couldn’t muster the energy or motivation to do much more than wallow and drink. She started smoking again too, just for something to do. 

That’s how Raven and Lincoln found her when they stopped by unannounced after she’d ignored their calls and texts for weeks, and used up nearly all her sick days at work. They found her smoking on her couch, a reality television show on in the background that made her feel just a little bit better about her own situation...but not by much. 

Raven tried her best to get through to Clarke, but tough love never really worked on Clarke. Her mother tried similar methods, and it only made Clarke push back more. Clarke didn’t like to do anything until she was ready. Her friend huffed in frustration and walked over to the small kitchenette, starting on her dishes even though Clarke told her not to bother with them. 

Lincoln, as quiet and calm as ever, simply sat down on the couch next to her. 

“Don’t waste your breath telling me to go for a walk, or take a shower, or...go somewhere. I don’t want to, and I won’t.”

“I know,” he answered easily. “But you can’t keep it all inside, Clarke. Whatever happened, you need to release it somewhere.”

Clarke scoffed. “You want me to cry about my feelings?”

“No,” he quickly responded. “I’m suggesting you do what we do best. Translate them onto a canvas. Make them into something else, and give them back to the world.”

Clarke swallowed thickly, but said nothing as she took another drag off her cigarette and turned her attention back towards the television. Still, Lincoln’s words had taken root in her subconscious. Hours after they left, she kept eyeing the corner of her small apartment where she kept some of her art supplies. She preferred creating in the studio space she shared with a few other artists, but she couldn’t fathom leaving her apartment at that moment. Opening a new bottle of wine and throwing her greasy hair into a bun, she walked on trepid bare feet to her supplies.

Clarke stayed up all night painting, until she could no longer keep her eyes open. When she woke mid-afternoon the next day, she continued. It went on for days until three paintings were laid on her floor in a row. She’d gotten paint on the floor and wouldn’t get her deposit back now, but she hardly cared. She had done it. She had made the first step in her journey back towards something resembling a life. 

\--∞--

“Shit.”

Clarke spins around, finding Bellamy standing in the living room doorway wearing only boxers and an undershirt. He’s holding a mug of coffee in each hand.

“What is this?”

Bellamy sighs, setting the mugs down on the coffee table. 

“What do you think it is?” he responds, unable to mask the bitterness in his voice. 

“I think it’s some sick joke, because obviously you’re  _ more _ than over me - over us.”

“How can you be so fucking dense, Clarke? Does it seem like I’m over you? I’m trying like hell to get over you and failing all the same. But you don’t have a right to comment on that - not when you’re the one who left. Not when  _ you’re  _ the reason we’re not together.”

The truth of his words stun Clarke into silence. So many thoughts run through her mind, but when all is said and done, all she’s left with is the truth. 

“I found a ring,” she tells him, voice cracking over the word. “I found a ring - Octavia’s ring, I now know - in your draw. I thought you were going to propose, and I freaked out. I-”

Bellamy’s scoff cuts her off. “So marrying me would have been such a horrible fate that it was better that we weren’t together at all? I guess that’s good to know, even if the ring wasn’t for you. I guess you saved us both from wasting any more time.”

“Bellamy.” His name comes out like a plea. “It wouldn’t, it-”

“Clarke,” he warns, shaking his head. “We broke up because you  _ thought _ I might propose, which is honestly worse than all the other reasons that have been running through my mind these last few months. I don’t really need to hear anymore.”

“Bellamy, please,” she asks again, tears filling her eyes. He clenches his jaw, but lets her continue. “You know how unhappy my parents were, and they stayed together so long and ended up just  _ hating _ each other. I was so afraid, I- I didn’t want that to be us.”

Bellamy’s expression softens at her words. He takes a step closer to her, making her heart pound wildly in her chest. “I know you better than anyone. I can’t believe you think I would ever propose before we had some kind of conversation about it.”

Clarke swallows. He’s right of course - she screwed everything up, for no reason at all. 

“And, Clarke?” Bellamy continues, stepping into her space. He cups her cheek, before tucking her messy hair behind her ear. “I could never hate you. Not even if I wanted to.”

Clarke doesn’t realize that she has tears streaming down her cheeks until Bellamy’s thumbs brush them away, right before he lets his forehead fall against hers. 

“What about your girlfriend?” she murmurs.

Bellamy raises his brow, but doesn’t move away. He looks more amused than anything. “She wasn’t my girlfriend, and that was over before it started.”

Despite how easy it would be to press her lips to his, Clarke throws herself into Bellamy’s arms instead, burying her face in the crook of his neck. She’s missed every part of him, his very essence, and would do anything to get him back. His own lips brush against the bare skin of her neck as he pulls her impossibly closer, sending a chill through her that makes her shudder. 

“Clarke.”

Her name is a question, and for once, she knows the answer without a doubt in her mind. Pulling back, she looks into his eyes before kissing him fiercely. Bellamy groans, lifting her easily into his arms and making his way to the bedroom.  _ Their _ bedroom once again, she hopes. Clarke deepens the kiss as Bellamy drops her on the bed, pulling him down on top of her, unwilling to allow any distance between them. She licks into his mouth, erasing the doubt, the grief, the fear, until she’s left with just Bellamy. The only man she’s ever loved. The man she still loves.

Cradled between her legs, Bellamy grinds against her center as he presses bruising kisses down her neck. This is why she loves Bellamy. When she’s with him, his presence consumes her and quiets the overwhelming world around her. She arches her back as his hands move up her sides under his sweatshirt. Nosing her jaw, he rolls his hips against her again, drawing a loud moan from her. 

“Fuck,” he groans, leaning back to take his t-shirt off. Clarke begins to pull his sweatshirt off, but he shakes his head, tugging it back down with black eyes. 

“Leave it on,” he tells her, voice rough. He helps her pull off her underwear instead, and Clarke barely has a moment to process it before he’s rolling her over and helping her onto her hands and knees. 

Crowding her from behind, he presses a kiss to the hallow behind her ear as he runs a finger through her now soaking slit. 

“Did you miss this?” he asks, rolling his thumb over her clit.

“Yes,” she gasps, choking on the word as it leaves her throat.

Bellamy pulls off her for only a moment before she feels him behind her again, this time hot and heavy between her legs. She clenches down on nothing, on the verge of begging as he slides himself against her. 

“You still on the pill?” he asks, sounding as wrecked as she feels.

Clarke nods eagerly before turning her head to face him. “Please.”

Bellamy runs a hand up her back under his sweatshirt, pushing her down further into the pillows and angling her hips. Finally, he presses into her, somehow both smothering and fanning the flames that roll through her. 

“ _ Oh _ ,” she cries, when he rolls his hips one last time and buries himself inside of her. 

Bellamy lowers himself so that his chest brushes against her back with every snap of his hips. He mouths at her shoulder as Clarke’s hands grip his sheets, knuckles white as she tries to anchor herself to something as she gets lost in the pleasure that erupts in her with every thrust. Bellamy’s thrusts grow more erratic as moans and quick pants fill the room, the sound of skin on skin driving Clarke to push back against him. 

“I love you,” he groans. His lips brush her shoulder where his sweatshirt has fallen off her shoulder and his fingers move to her clit. 

Clarke cries out as she feels her orgasm rise in her like a wave, falling from its crest and spreading pleasure to every part of her as she clenches around Bellamy. He thrusts into her once, twice more before groaning loudly as he spills into her, nearly collapsing on top of her. Still panting, Bellamy presses a kiss to Clarke’s temple before pulling out of her and collapsing onto his back next to her. She immediately rolls onto her side to face him, the strain from the position making her limbs quiver. 

“I love you too,” she finally answers, reaching out to push his damp curls off his forehead. “I’m sorry I freaked out, I just - well you know. You were right about knowing me better than anyone.”

“C’mere,” he tells her, pulling her close so that she’s clinging to his chest. She can hear his heartbeat begin to steady as he interlaces their fingers, letting their joint hands fall to his chest. 

“You know, if we ever do get married one day, it’s 110% on you to propose. I’m not even going to  _ look _ at a ring.”

Clarke laughs wildly. She’d forgotten how easily he made her feel weightless. “Deal.”

“Bell?” she asks, after a beat. He hums in response. 

“That art on the wall...I made that a month after I left. I was absolutely miserable, and it was the first thing that got me out of bed. The three pieces - the first represents my life before you, the second was with you, and the third after I lost you.”

Clarke twists her face to look up at him, even though the vulnerability of her words makes her want to hide instead. He strokes her cheek with the back of his finger. 

“Then you’ll have to make one last piece to go with them.”

Clarke’s lips twist into an amused smile. “Yeah?”

“Yeah - something that represents us together again. But that piece is the last one, because I’m never letting you go again.”

Clarke nods, pressing a kiss to his chest as he begins to thread his fingers through her messy hair. “I think I can work with that.”

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos fuel writers & are always appreciated!
> 
> I matched this donation by donating to [Black Women for Wellness](https://www.bwwla.org/).


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